Logan's Twinkie Run
by Connecticut Junkie
Summary: Logan and Jubes get gas. The fuel variety, like, ew! Grow up, dude. Sequel to "To Catch a Twinkie Thief." Set in movie-verse, but for explanation as to why its over here, see prior story


Title: Logan's Twinkie Run

Author: Connecticut Junkie PG-13 (just to be safe)

Summary: Logan and Jubilee's late night continues at the gas station. Hang on to your sideburns, it's going to be a chatty ride. remember this is Movieverse and Jubes is like seventeen.

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Marvel, not me.

Archive: If you want it, come and claim it.

Thanks to all of you who enjoyed the first one. I was gonna stop there but since you left all those sweet reviews, I was inspired to make more. (And post it two years later. Sorry!)

Okay, so I didn't die. I have a tendency to exaggerate and believe me, I'm well aware of that fact. But I did black out for at least five seconds. Maybe ten. It's hard to tell because I don't have my watch on and even if I did, there is no way in this world that I'd remove my hand from Logan's washboard abs just to tell you how many seconds it was. I think that even if my hand spontaneously combusted or something, I still wouldn't remove it. I bet _Marie_ would die though. She has such a loser crush on him. Mmm...abs.

I wonder if I can really grate cheese on there. I wonder if Logan would let me try.

You know what's funny? That even in my mental picture of Logan lying shirtless on the floor with a pile of shredded cheese around him, he's _still_ hot. He's so hot he's melting the cheese and he's like one giant enchilada.

Man, I'm hungry. Which reminds me that the lousy bastard ate all my Twinkies. I poke at his abs. "You should lay off the Twinkies, buddy. I think you're putting on a few pounds there."

"You got a healing factor?" he asks, quite randomly in my opinion.

"Nope. Just the sparkles."

"Then you better stop poking me before that finger gets broken."

Any sane person would probably have removed the finger. I, on the other hand, have heard the phrase, "Jubilee, are you _crazy_?" more times than I can count (which really isn't all that much because I'm like, dyscalculic or something.) So instead of removing my finger, I poke him in the ribs.

Heh. Who'da thought that Wolverine was ticklish.

"Don't make me regret taking you, kid."

There is a little bit of a teasing tone to his voice, but it's more like five percent teasing, ninety-five percent annoyed. I decide to quit before I really piss him off and he leaves me alone on the side of the road with nothing to keep me company besides the endless blackness of the woods. And dude, I've seen all nine seasons of X-Files and that is _so_ not the kind of sitch I'd wanna be in.

Just as I'm wondering if the chupacabra has procured a work visa and made his way up to the hills of Westchester County, there's a light on the horizon. A sweet, blessed sign of the gas station, like a beacon to the restless travelers. Bring us your tired, your Twinkie-less masses.

Logan's barely stopped the bike before I hop off and skedaddle into the station, hunting for Twinkies and/or other junk food items. I let Logan handle the dirty work of filling up the tank, and I dump the three boxes of Twinkies and a handful of Hostess cupcakes on the counter. The gas station dude looks at me with one eyebrow raised.

"Munchies?"

"You bet," I answer, digging into the box of Twinkies.

He rings up the food and like whoa- I suddenly realize I have two dollars and forty four cents, which is a lot less than I need to pay.

"Oops," I say, scrambling around to see if maybe I left some change in my shoe or something.

Then gas station dude tells me he'll let me go without paying the rest if I share my weed with him. I don't even _have _any weed. Stupid pothead. Which leaves me with one option.

"Be right back," I tell Mr. Pothead and I walk out of the station and over to the bike, where Logan's leaning against the pump with one foot propped up, looking like the poster boy for some kind of rugged cigarette ad. And while smoking of any kind is dumb, I guess it would be marketed to the dumbest of the dumb because no one who ever smoked next to a gas pump has ever won a Nobel Prize, of that I'm like so totally certain.

Even though his mouth doesn't change in the slightest, his eyebrows don't move a tiny millimeter, his facial expression somehow goes from 'oh what a good smoke' to 'now what?'

My brightest, sweetest smile doesn't even crack him. This dude is one tough nut. "Whaddya want?"

"Okay, see I kind of have this allowance but I didn't realize I'd be like, going out tonight or anything, so I don't have enough money to get the grub, but I'll totally pay you back when we get home if you just let me borrow five bucks pretty please with whipped cream and a cherry on top?"

Hmm. My super cute eyelash-batting nervous ramble does not seem to work on him. Maybe he doesn't like whipped cream or cherries. "Uh...," I struggle to think of something that would appeal to him, "a naked lady on top?" Nothing. Nada. "Two naked ladies?" Hey! I think its working. There's a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "_Three_ naked ladies and a case of beer!" I hold out three fingers just so he knows how many naked ladies there will be.

Well, my Monty Hall impression musta worked 'cause he sticks a twenty in my hand. "Don't forget the whipped cream, too."

Three minutes I'm returning with my Twinkie stash, and just because I'm the smartest smart ass this side of the Mississippi, a can of whipped cream.

"What, no cherry?" he tosses off as I hand him the can.

I throw something his way. He, of course, catches it, because he's cool like that. It's a cherry ring pop, the kind most kids start out thinking are a great idea but after your own spit starts to dribble down between your fingers you realize its one of the stupidest types of candy ever.

"Very funny."

I shrug. "I thought so." He doesn't seem to agree, so I keep talking. "They didn't have any real cherries. So it was either this or like, cherry cough drops which are revolting beyond anything else's ability to revolt, so mmph!"

I didn't say 'mmph', not really. I was trying to say "quit your bitching" but Logan had shoved the cherry ring pop into my mouth while I was talking. That is beyond rude!

He tries and fails miserably not to smirk at what must be a funny picture. A teenage mallrat in old sweatpants standing in a gas station at 2:30 in the morning, holding two boxes of Twinkies and a cherry ring pop in her mouth. I give him the finger, and for extra measure, give him the other one too. With the other hand, that is. Not like, my pinkie finger. Duh!

"So what are your powers anyway? Besides the ability to talk non-stop."

I pull the cherry ring pop out of my mouth and throw it at him, slobber and all. He sidesteps it easily. "I don't think now's a good time to show you."

"Why not?"

I point to the numerous gas pumps. "Kaboom City."

"What's the matter," he says around his unlit cigar, "got no control?"

How dare he! He's the one who has no control with his grr and arrgh and growliness. I zap a paf over to his face. His eyes get really wide and it's kinda funny as he realizes I purposely wasn't aiming at him. He takes a big, long puff on his newly lit stogie.

"So what do they call you? Sparkles?"

"Dude, that is so lame."

"Mallrat?"

"As if!" I blow the bangs out of my face. "I don't have a codename. Jubilee works fine with me." My nose tilts to what I've been told before is a 'haughty angle'. "Not like some people who need codenames to make themselves sound cooler because their real names are lame and unoriginal, coughMariecough."

"Yer a piece of work, you know that?"

"Yeah. A work of art."

The gas pump makes the clunking noise that means the tank is full. Logan looks over at me. "Now what?"

"You put the nozzle back, duh."

"Thanks. What would I do without you."

"Sarcasm is so unattractive."

He puts the nozzle back on the pump. I guess I could help, but then I'd have to put down the Twinkie I'm unwrapping. And this Twinkie has been a long time coming.

"So...again. Now what?"

"Whaddya mean, 'now what?'"

Apparently, Logan cannot understand Mouthful of Twinkie, despite how sensitive he touts his hearing to be.

"You ever heard of swallowing, kid?"

I swallow the Twinkie and give him a naughty grin. "That a come on?" slips out of my mouth before I can even think. And then I think, wow! I'm totally flirting with Wolverine! I wonder if they give out Frequent Flirter Miles or something, because, man am I racking them up.

Ooh, he grins back. I have a feeling I'm gonna score enough miles to upgrade to First Class Flirt by the end of this night. I wonder how Logan looks in one of those stewardess uniforms.

"It's a suggestion," he leers.

Something tells me this night could be very interesting. "C'mon. Let's blow this popsicle stand and go somewhere."

"Only place that's open now is bars. Or that Wal-Mart two towns over but I ain't goin' there unless you get Chuck to screw with my mind."

"Let's go to a bar! There's Harry's or the Auger Inn...those aren't too far. If we stole the blackbird though, we could skip over to NYC and go someplace really swank."

"We ain't stealin' the blackbird."

"Fine. Harry's. Least they got a decent pool table."

"Aw, damn." He looks like he just remembered he forgot to turn the iron off and now his house will burn down.

"Whaaaat?" Yes, I know how unattractive whining is, but I think this situation really calls for some top-notch whining.

"You can't go drinkin',"

I think Logan must hate the letter 'G' or something, like maybe he was watching Sesame Street many years ago and had a traumatic experience when they were trying to teach 'G.' Although, he's probably way too old to have ever seen that show. Maybe he got stampeded by a giraffe when Ye Olde Circus came to wherever the hell it was he grew up. Either way, he like, rarely uses it when it comes to the end of words. It's always _darlin__', somethin', fightin', kiddin'_...so I guess either he hates 'G' or has a crazy jones for apostrophes.

"Why the hell not?"

"Yer too young," he says, and I like to think that there's a touch- nay, a smidgen- of disappointment in there. Somewhere. You probably have to look really, really hard if you want to find it.

But Jubilation Lee does not disappoint. I stick my hand in the back pocket of my pants- and I know at this point you're totally wondering why I go to bed with pants that have pockets _and_ why those pockets have inside them a stick of gum, two buttons, an old movie stub to Lord of the Rings, and my fake I.D. Well, the pants are sweatpants, but of the cute and teenage girl variety, not of the frumpy Mid-West quilt-sewing housewife. So besides having the word "Bitch" written on the butt, they have a pocket or two. And the rest of the crap in there is in there because I seem to be a crap-magnet, but the fake I.D. is actually there for a strategic reason. Because the way I figure, the last place any authority figure is gonna look for my fake I.D. is actually on my person. Whoa, that came out _so_ Law and Order sounding. Bottom line: Cyke won't be sticking his hand anywhere near my ass while I sleep. So it's safer than Fort Knox.

"_Jubilation Lee_ may be too young," I point out, and then use the Moment-of-Eyebrow-Furrowing he gives me to extract my fabulous, super-useful fake I.D. from my pocket and wave it in front of his face. "But Pinky Kim is more legal than a whore in Amsterdam."

More Eyebrow Furrowing. Then there's some Eyebrow Lifting, followed by Eyebrow Waggling, which is accompanied by Wicked Grin. "Pinky Kim?" he asks incredulously.

"That's my name, don't wear it out."

"Sounds like some kind of stripper."

I snort and roll my eyes in the most hoity-toity way you can snort, which really isn't all that hoity-toity but I just like to say the words hoity-toity. "Porn star," I correct, and slide onto the bike.

He shrugs his shoulders and gets on himself. There's a little pause before he starts the bike which is probably the little tiny bit of conscience he's developed over his short time at the school telling him, 'Hey. Jean wouldn't think it's good to take underage girls drinking, so you probably shouldn't do it.'

And I may be underage, but I'm no girl. "Any minute now, Wolvie," I goad, fairly certain he'll hate that little nickname, and just to goad him further, I smack him on the ass.

He glares at me over his shoulder. "You really are one piece of work, kid."

I just stick my tongue out at him. And he starts the bike and peels out onto the road with way more speed than is necessary, and even with the stupid helmet on I can hear him laughing as I try not to fall off and totally kill myself.

end-

Part three soon.


End file.
